


Wait for the Bluebirds

by Quietbang



Series: The War Guests [2]
Category: X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: First Class - Fandom
Genre: Adventures, Alternate Universe- Historical, Alternate Universe-School, Boys Being Boys, Gen, Implied Bigotry, Implied anti-Semitism, Latin, Secret Hideouts, War Guests, World War II, references to Nazism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-01
Updated: 2012-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-30 11:49:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quietbang/pseuds/Quietbang
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>The work Erik is trying to translate is from Book IV of <i>The Aeneid</i> by Virgil and is a fairly standard piece for elementary-intermedate Latin students to study.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Wait for the Bluebirds

**Author's Note:**

> The work Erik is trying to translate is from Book IV of _The Aeneid_ by Virgil and is a fairly standard piece for elementary-intermedate Latin students to study.

“Lehnsherr!”

Erik looked up, smudging the ink on his Latin homework. He glanced around. 

The library was empty. 

The silence was all-encompassing, broken only by the faint strain of choral singing. 

The rest of the school was still at Mass, then. 

He glanced down again.  
 _  
“Iuppiter omnipotēns, cui nunc Maurūsia pictīs  
gēns epulāta torīs Lēnaeum lībat honōrem,  
aspicis haec? An tē, genitor, cum fulmina torquēs,  
nēquīquam horrēmus, caecīque in nūbibus ignēs  
terrificant animōs et inānia murmura miscent?  
Fēmina, quae nostrīs errāns in fīnibus urbem  
exiguam pretiō posuit, cui lītus arandum  
cuique locī lēgēs dedimus, cōnūbia nostra  
reppulit, ac dominum Aenēān in rēgna recēpit.”_

He frowned, and rubbed his eyes, as though hoping that there was some glamour that could be removed, that if he stared long enough, the words would rearrange themselves and hide his ignorance. 

As though it were not enough for privation to be writ large upon his face, upon his body that was so much smaller than the others his age- as though he did not feel stupid enough, being among boys more than three years his junior. 

He had felt the same in England, of course, but at least there- well, some had understood, or thought they had. 

They didn't talk about it, of course, but- his Masters, at least, had known that his ignorance was not intentional. That he had not been in a proper school since 1933.  
Here, he sees only disapproval and pity in the eyes of his teachers when he struggles to answer a basic question in Latin, fails to comprehend the meaning behind of Shakespeare, manages to misconstrue some obscure simile or literary convention that is _perfectly simple, Lehnsherr, really_ , when he stumbles roughly over consonants during recitation- _**w** ind like a **whet** ted **knife** , Lehnsherr, not **v** ind li **ke** a **v** et **ted** knife_ \- and rarely is it mixed with the vague understanding he had sometimes seen in England. 

Which is strange, because he has gotten much better, no longer sounds like he chews up  
his vowels, rolling the consonants around his tongue like a piece of hot crackling, but sometimes it seems like nobody in this country can understand a word he's saying- or perhaps they don't want to. 

They assume from his accent that he is a Fritz, a Jerry, not to be trusted; although his papers say he is Polish, Erik suspects that the other boys, at least, are unsure if there is a difference. 

Here in America, they are allowed to forget. 

 

It's strange, because memory seems to run longer here- and yet they can ignore this. 

Perhaps is makes it easier to do nothing, to stand idly by as, an ocean and a world away, cities burn. 

Perhaps it helps them to forget that the first country to fall to the Nazis was their own.

“Lehnsherr!”

He jumped, startling out of his reverie. “Who is it?” He whispered. 

“Over here!”

Erik glanced around, and-ah. There, at the window, was the small, pale face of Charles Xavier. 

“Xavier? What are you doing out of prayers?”

“I could ask the same to you,” he pointed out. “Are you alone?”

“Yes,” Erik said cautiously. “Mr. Moore is leading the choir.”

Charles waves a hand dismissively. “Yes, I knew _that_. I meant- are there any other boys in there?”

There is curiosity in his eyes, but a touch of apprehension too, and it vaguely occurs to Erik that maybe he isn't the only one having trouble adjusting to this strange new land. 

Erik shook his head. Charles' eyes lit up, and a grin spread across his round face. 

“Whatever are you waiting for?”

Erik wrinkled his forehead. “I- sorry, what do you mean? I need to do this.”

Charles rolled his eyes. “Bring it with you.”

Erik made eye contact for a moment, scrutinising him carefully. His eyes are sparkling, his cheeks flushed with excitement, and Erik feels a twist of apprehension when he realises how much of a child the other boy really is. 

He smiles, and follows him anyway.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

“Where are we _going_?”

Erik rushed to catch up to the younger boy. For a boy of his size, Charles was _fast_ and had the benefit of knowing where they were going besides.

“Just a little farther, you'll see.”

They were out of town now, traipsing through a field of long grass with surprising ease. 

It was unseasonably warm, and both boys had by now discarded their school jackets and ties in favour of shirtsleeves.

When they reached a river, Charles stopped. 

“It's just over that hill,” he said, “But you'll have to jump the river.”

“I can't swim.”

“Neither can I,” Charles said with a grin. “But it's not too deep anyway, three feet at the most. You can make the jump.”

He had a point. The river was probably just over four feet across, and with a running start-  
Erik glanced at Charles, shut his eyes, and took off. As he reached the riverbed, he sprung himself in the air and let out a screech- and he was flying, he was flying, and he was across the river, and-  
and landed in the mud in a tangle of limbs. 

 

From across the river, Erik heard Charles, his voice high with worry. “Erik? Erik, are you all right?”

Erik grinned, and as he got up he surprised even himself by lettng out a full, gut-wrenching laugh. 

He smirked.“I'm okay! Your turn now, Charles.”

Charles bit his lip, and suddenly his bravado vanished. He looked uncertain.

Erik felt obliged to cheer him on. “Come _on_ , Charles, what are you waiting for? Don't be such a sissy.”

Well, cheer him on in a manner of speaking, anyway. 

Charles looked at him, then at the river, then back at him. He took a deep breath, shut his eyes, and took off at a run. 

His legs continued to cycle madly as he flew through the air, and it wasn't until he was over halfway over that Erik had the thought- _he's not going to make it._

He gasped, and began to launch himself forward- to do what, Erik didn't know- but Charles was landing now, just on the water's edge, his arms flying up to shield his face from the mud and rocks of the riverbed. 

For a moment, everything was silent. 

“Charles? Charles, are you all right?”

Silence.

“Charles, that isn't funny. Are you all right?”

Erik's heart seemed to stop, before Charles groaned and began to push himself up from the ground. 

His cheeks were flushed, his palms scraped, and bits of gravel clung to his cheek and knees. 

His shirt was filthy, mud and stone and silt smeared liberally across his chest. 

He looked dazed, and for a moment Erik was afraid he was going to cry. 

Then he took a deep breath, and looked around. His eyes widened in horror. “My jacket. Where's my jacket?”

At the panicked look on Charles' face Erik glanced around quickly, before spying it lying in a heap at the edge of the river. 

Charles saw it at the same time. The contents of its pockets were scattered around it- a bag of marbles, a stick of gum, and a small packet of papers. Erik bent to pick them up. 

“Don't touch it!”

But it was too late. The papers- letters, he saw, tied up with a faded piece of twine- were in his hand. At the front of the packet was a photograph of a man with a cocky grin in an RAF uniform. 

He ran his thumb over the man's smiling face. 

“Please,” Charles said, and there was something desperate in his voice, something about to break, “Please. Give it back.”

He looked at Charles. He was breathing hard, and his eyes were shining with anxiety. 

“Erik. They're mine. Give it back.”

Wordlessly, he handed the packet to Charles, who ran his fingers over it, as though  
reassuring himself that it was still there, and shoved it deep in his trouser pocket. 

He collected his jacket in silence.  
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
By the time they had reached their apparent destination, Charles had regained his  
composure. 

It was a shack, a raggedy wooden thing hidden amongst the trees. 

Charles ran up to the door. 

Erik stood where he was, marvelling at his fearlessness. 

“What are you waiting for?” Charles called over his shoulder. “Come on!”

Erik shrugged, and followed him. 

Inside, the floor was lined with ragged blankets. In one corner of the dim room lay several cardboard boxes and a few candle stubs. 

Erik didn't feel good about this. 

“Charles,” he said cautiously, “Someone lives here. We should go.”

Charles rolled his eyes. “Don't be stupid, Erik, it doesn't suit you. I'm the only person who has been here in months.”

Oh. 

Well, in that case... “What's in the boxes?”

Charles grinned, and thrust one towards him. “Look.”

It was a treasure trove. Books and paper and bits of toffee, a small sack of rock cakes, stubs of pencils and broken bits of chocolate. 

Erik felt his eyes grow wide. “Charles, where did you get all this stuff?”

For a moment, Charles flushes, looking away. “They were just going to throw it out...”

“Did you _steal_ it?” Erik didn't bother trying to keep the disapproval out of his voice. He had stolen food in the ghetto, yes, but that had been _different_. 

Charles shuffled his feet. “No! The maid- she gives it to me. Says that I can probably put it to better use than the rubbish heap.”

He was quiet for a moment, and then- “I just want to be prepared. Just in case.”

Erik looks at him for a moment, and thinks back to his room at the Winslow's, of the boxes of preserves hidden carefully under his bed. He glances at Charles, thin, white-faced Charles, and _wonders_.

He doesn't ask. 

Instead, he smiles, and Charles breaks out in nervous laughter .

They end up spending the afternoon there, and it is only when the sun begins to set that Erik realizes they have missed the school day entirely. 

“We're going to get thrashed,” Charles moans. 

“ _I'm_ going to get thrashed,” Erik corrects. “You're too adorable to thrash- Mr Fotheringham will probably send you home with a lolly-pop and a pat on the head.”

Charles punches him in the shoulder. 

“Oww,” Erik whines as he rubs it dramatically. For a little guy, Charles has a surprisingly powerful punch. 

He claps a hand over his face as he realizes that he never did finish his Latin homework. 

He says as much to Charles, who immediately offers to help. 

Erik turns him down flatly. He doesn't want help; doesn't _need_ help, thank you very much, especially not from a _child_ like Charles.

Charles squints at him, and rubs his temple in thought. The subject is dropped. 

Later that night, when he has returned to the Winslow's, flushed with sunburn and smudged with dirt, and has convinced one of the maids to slip him some dinner and clean clothes without alerting Mrs Winslow he makes one more attempt. 

The words seem to come swelling up out of nowhere, like water from the cracked earth, and he writes them down, stunned. The break must have done him some good, after all- though he's not looking forward to facing his teachers at school tomorrow- because he realises, with a sudden jolt of clarity, that he _understands_.

_All-powerful Jupiter, to whom the Moors, on their embroidered  
divans, banqueting, now pour a Bacchic offering,  
do you see this? Do we shudder in vain when you hurl  
your lightning bolts, father, and are those idle fires in the clouds  
that terrify our minds, and flash among the empty rumblings?  
A woman, wandering within, who paid to found a little town, and to whom we granted coastal lands to plough, to hold in tenure, scorns marriage with me, and takes Aeneas into her country as its lord. _


End file.
